Rafkin
by Digital Tempest
Summary: Rafkin's introduction to Cyrus.


**Author's notes:** Don't own; don't sue. I make no money and neither will you. Only the first part is told in first person. The rest will be told in omnipresent third person. I don't know the actual city this took place in, so I just put them somewhere. I'm sorry if it isn't accurate, but this is a work of fiction, not perfect. Also, this was supposed to be a chaptered story, but I lost the inspiration for it and decided that it could work as a standalone.

Italics represent thought.

**Rafkin**  
By Tempest

**_Dennis Rafkin Speaks_**

You know, it wasn't as if I asked to be born the way I am. I didn't have a choice on whether I wanted to be different, or if I wanted to be just another face in the crowd. But I think if given the choice, I would have still chosen to be different. So-called 'normal' people are far crueler than we 'different' people are. I guess it's because they're scared to go outside of their sheltered little, 'normal' bubbles. And we 'freaks' know what it's like to be shunned and wouldn't wish that upon another person, especially when all we ever wanted was to be accepted and loved.

Okay, now I'm being the unreasonable one. I've met many 'normal' people who weren't afraid of me. In this day and age, most things don't scare people anymore like they use to. It's normal to turn on TV and see your Miss Cleos proclaiming, "Call me now for your free psychic reading." Television has hardened people to the abnormalities of the word, and we're all destined for eternal damnation. Or at least, that's what my mother says. Picturesque thought, isn't it?

_"Don't play with Dennis Rafkin. He talks to ghosts."_

It was sad to think that here I was a grown man of 25 years old, and I was still bitter about a little childhood taunting that I took at the hands of not only my peers, but also everyone in my little tight knit community. Ok, well maybe it was more than just 'a little taunting'. What did those inbred bastards know anyway? The most exciting thing to happen to them was usually the coming of the town fair or sweet, innocent Bessie Mae going out with the neighborhood bad boy. I'm so glad that I got away from that hellhole.

I was born in the small town of Greeneville, New York. It was one of those providential type towns that didn't take kindly to strangers or 'weirdoes'. I was considered a 'weirdo' in their eyes. There was always something different about me even from birth. My mother said that as an infant in my crib I use to coo, gurgle, and grab at 'unseen things'. So, it seems that my psychic power manifested itself at infancy – lucky me.

My mother tried to keep my handicap (as she called it) secret from the people in our town, but that's a little hard when you have a very inquisitive child. I remember one time we went to the grocery store, and the store clerk, Jimmy, tried to give me a piece of candy. Well, our hands touched, and we linked. Linked is a nice way of saying that we connected in a paranormal way.

The images emitting from Jimmy were so strong that I went into convulsions. It seems that Jimmy was quite the pedophile. I won't tell you all what I saw, but let's just say that he would be looking at 15 years of being Killer's girlfriend in the slammer if he ever was caught. I snatched my hand from Jimmy's dropping the candy on the floor. Everyone who was present in the store was staring at me.

"Mommy, please take me away from the bad man…" I whispered, and she ushered me out of the store away from Jimmy. I never spoke to Jimmy again after that, and I was never alone around him. That was only one of a series of strange events that happened to me due to my psychic powers.

My mom tried to deal with it the best she could, but she could never really understand what I was going through. She tried to make me 'better'. My mother was a deeply religious woman who believed that God would 'cure' me of my evilness. I went to church every week, preachers prayed for me, and she even tried to get the 'demons' exorcised from me. It was hard for her to deal with having a child that was different, but she did the best she could. I couldn't blame her for that.

My dad on the other hand was a complete asshole about the situation. He often blamed my mother for having an 'strange' child as if my mother made me herself. My dad was a drunk – that's the best way I can put it without being completely pungent about it. He often tried to get me to predict 'the numbers' for him. He played them everyday. When I couldn't predict his numbers he would say, "What good are ya, then?" Needless to say, my father didn't have much to do with my mother or me. He rarely came home before 3am most mornings. He was always out drinking and gambling his money away.

I learned to deal with being different; I didn't have many friends, and the few I did have were only my friends because they thought I could somehow help them get out of that town. Everyone's parents were always afraid I was going to bewitch them in some way, so most kids were forbidden to play with me. When people saw me in town, they would cross the street. When I went in stores, everyone would stop and watched my every idiosyncratic move ready to run if I 'posed a threat'. People recoiled from me as if I had leprosy. I could see the fear in their eyes. It was empowering, yet saddening all at the same time. This went on my entire 18 years in Greeneville.

When I turned 18, I got the hell out of dodge. It was a bit of tearjerker leaving my mother behind with my idiot father, but she wanted me to get out of Greeneville just as much as I wanted to get out of the town. She didn't want me to leave because I was a branded freak; she felt that there was more opportunity for me elsewhere. I think in her own secretive way she was trying to say that I wasn't a freak but someone very special. So, I moved to NYC -- the big city. Things improved greatly for me there because no one knew who I was. Well, they were somewhat bad at first, but one day my luck changed.

I was no longer Dennis Rafkin, freak of nature. I was Rafkin – ghost hunter. Ghost hunter? Sounds freaky, doesn't it? It's not freaky at all… Okay, I'll admit I am a little freaked out by catching ghosts with my powers, but I trust Cyrus. He's my friend, and he accepts me for who I am. He's like the father I wished I had as a young boy. He doesn't pass judgment upon me for being different. He says my talents (not my handicap) will take me far.

We'll see where this takes me. One day, my name will be larger than life. People will see me and chant, "Rafkin! Rafkin!"

- - -

The sky was a rich, dark color semblance to that of crushed velvet. No stars blessed the sky that night with their playful twinkles, and the moon was all but visible from its hiding place behind the rain clouds. The rain fell softly and steadily outside lulling the angry city into a soothing sleep; its patrons lay resting from the day's journey as enticing images played gently on their subconscious. They embraced sleep readily, willing it to come and renew them for the next day's perils. They envisioned themselves safe from all evils -- everyone except, Dennis Rafkin.

There was another world apart of that same city that the 'good' city-dwellers didn't like to mention. They chose to ignore it, hoping that someday it would go away. It was where all the evils lurked, waiting for its unsuspecting prey. It was where the prostitutes solicited their 'many' services, where careless men gambled away their family fortunes, where hopeless souls wandered the street endless looking for something that would never be found, and it was where Dennis Rafkin slept. It was there he dreamed his same tortured dreams night after night.

Dennis lay huddled in his bed; his knees pulled tightly to his chest. His face contorted into a look of unwavering fear. He pulled at his covers fearfully as low moans of trepidation escaped his slightly parted lips. "No," he pleaded futilely with his invisible assailant. He tossed violently in his small bed, releasing the covers and allowing them to slip from his tortuous hold. His eyelids flickered, but he didn't wake from his troubled slumber. He cried out in his sleep, one hand shooting in the air and grasping for some unseen salvation.

"I won't let you…" Dennis promised, his voice trailing off into incoherent mumbles. He started to shiver violently and began to break out into a cold sweat. He cried out once again as if in pain, and then fell silent once more. No one knew about the demons that haunted Dennis; the foreboding visions he dealt with everyday.

He sat up suddenly in his bed, breathing quickly, looking around his small room frantically. He was trying to regain a sense of sanity, but he was beyond believing that he was 'sane'. He let his head sink into his hands as he began to sob wretchedly. He knew he should feel childish for conveying that sort of emotion over stupid dreams, but he wasn't sure if his dreams were as silly as he led himself to believe. He knew he was different; he knew he 'saw' things other people didn't. Ever since he had left his small hometown, he had tried to ignore his 'powers'. He had convinced himself somewhere between moving from Hellhole, USA to the Big Apple that he could lead a normal life.

"What made you think that you could actually be normal?" Dennis spat at himself, disgusted. How foolish he had been to believe that _he_ could blend in with the everyday Joe. He lay back on his bed, resting his head on his pillow, but he didn't sleep. He didn't feel safe going to sleep anymore. He felt that by entering that subconscious realm he was inviting the terrors to drag his soul straight to hell. Maybe, that was where he belonged. He shook his head, vehemently. No, he didn't ask to be born that way. He hadn't performed any sacred, demonic rituals to become what he was.

He cringed at his own bitter thinking. He kept referring to his abilities as if he had a disease. He was a psychic. There… he had admitted it silently to himself. It wasn't a curse, but it sure as hell wasn't a blessing. Well, maybe, it _was_ a curse, but he didn't want to admit that. He didn't enjoy linking with people; he always felt like he was intruding on something personal (which he was, wasn't he?).

A selfish thought passed his mind. What if he used his own psychic abilities to bring in the money? Everyone was calling Miss Cleo these days, so why couldn't he do something just as profitable? He was a real psychic, but people weren't willing to pay for the truth; they wanted rose-colored prophecies that spoke of love, wealth, and happiness. Did he blame them? No, but he did think that people should be realistic about things. Dennis sighed to himself. Who was he to tell someone what was pragmatic and what was not?

Maybe, he should have stayed in the dull town that he was in, scaring the locals. He laughed to himself at the thought of his second grade teacher, old Mrs. Myrtle, keeling over because he touched her. But as much as he joked about terrorizing the people of his boyhood home, he knew there wasn't a life there for him. He probably would have already been dead either by suicide or by some disgruntled neighbors' hand. He wondered for a moment how his mother was doing, and he wondered if he should call her later in the day.

His poor mother, laden with a child that was branded weird, was the essence of everything Dennis considered frail. She was a kind woman whom time had forgotten. She still clung to old beliefs about marriage, children, and the role of the wife. As a child, Dennis could remember his mother pointing out all the faults of the younger generation of women. She loved Dennis, and she tried everything to rid him of the horrible 'demon' that lived inside him. He couldn't be bitter at his mother -- no matter how hard he tried.

His mother had lived all these years with his wayward father. Dennis couldn't even think about his father without a feeling of revulsion rising up in him. He could still remember his father's sour breath invading his senses as his father demanded he give him 'the numbers' so he could hit the lottery. Then he could feel his father's antipathy when Dennis told him it didn't work that way. Even if he could have predicted the numbers, he wouldn't have given them to his lousy drunk of a father. He often wished his father would die a violent, bloody death, and he didn't regret feeling that way.

Dennis felt his lids growing heavy, but he tried to resist sleep, fearing the ubiquitous dreams. Sleep would not loosen its hold on him as finally his lids fluttered and closed. The nightmares didn't plague him again that night, and for that one comfort, he was appreciative.

The next day Dennis woke as he always did with the ritualistic yawn and butt scratching; he turned on his small TV, tuning into Cartoon Network. He couldn't miss Dragonball Z. He fixed himself a small bowl of cereal (Lucky Charms, only the best for Dennis) and nestled in his bed. He would be working the night shift at Kriticos Enterprises. He was a custodian to put it nicely, and while he hated the job, he would have to stick with it till he found something better.

"Damnit, I didn't go to college for four years for this shit." He cursed to himself, frustrated. He was tired of just getting by in life. He had left Greeneville to make something of himself. He wanted to make his mother proud. Oh, she said she was already proud of him. She had cried happily at his college graduation, and now, he wondered why he even went to college. He had gotten his degree in Linguistics, and now, he was a janitor for some wealthy mogul.

He had never met Mr. Kriticos, but he heard 'stories' about him. His co-workers said he was an eccentric man who often spent his time doing eccentric things, such as collecting rare artifact and ghost hunting. Dennis' ears perked up at that last statement. Exactly how does one hunt a ghost? He heard that Mr. Kriticos was a shrewd man, preferring to isolate himself from his associates and employees. They said he lived in a colossal, glass house, hidden away from the city. Those small tidbits were enough to make Dennis wonder about his employer.

Dennis quickly disregarded thoughts about his Mr. Kriticos as Goku and Vegeta engaged into combat. He didn't think about his boss again until he was at work, emptying the garbage on the 12th floor. He was mumbling to himself about how much he hated his job, his life… everything. "I should just jump out of one of these windows. Then, I'll be famous for 15 minutes… or until the next jumper decides to outdo me." He groused to himself.

Mr. Kriticos' office was at the end of the hallway. It was usually locked. Apparently, Mr. Kriticos took care of his own cleaning. Dennis snorted at the thought, but he was curious. He abandoned the office he had been cleaning and walked bravely to Mr. Kriticos' office door. "Why are you doing this, Dennis? You know it's going to be locked." He said as he reached for the doorknob. He was shocked as the knob turned willingly in his hands and the door opened soundlessly. _Turn back now, Dennis. You shouldn't be here. If you are caught, you'll be fired, and then what are you suppose to do?_ A voice screamed in his head.

He ignored that nagging voice as he dared to tread upon sacred ground. The room was dimly lit, and Dennis' heart began to beat with nervous excitement; Mr. Kriticos' chair was turned toward the window, which provided an excellent view of NYC's skyline. Dennis eyed the contents of the room, intrigued. Mr. Kriticos was indeed the eccentric they claimed he was. There were artifacts adorning the large room. Dennis' saw things from many different cultures. The gleam of a sword, engraved with Japanese writing, caught his eye, and Dennis walked precariously toward the corner it hung from.

He touched the sword for a moment, fingering the engraved indentions in it. That's when the visions began to overtake his mind. The sword had belonged to a skilled, Japanese military leader, Tokugawa Ieyasu. Ieyasu's son was begging piteously at his father's feet, and Ieyasu unyielding to his son's cries demanded that he commit suicide while he condemned his own wife to be executed. How could Dennis understand this? He didn't know any Japanese. Dennis convulsed again as he felt unbearable grief as if his heart were breaking… Pain, he was feeling Ieyasu's pain.

"What are you doing here?" A voice demanded as Dennis pulled himself away from the sword. He was still shaking from witnessing the scene, and he struggled to form his words. He turned to face a menacing Mr. Kriticos; he could feel everything falling down around him. _Now, you've gone and done it, Dennis._ He said to himself. Mr. Kriticos had entered the room while Dennis was having a premonition and had observed his odd behavior.

"I-I was just trying to clean…" Dennis answered, trying to shake the images from his mind. Why would Ieyasu condemn his own family to such a fate?

"To me, it looks like you were trying to find something to take, hoping to capture yourself a small fortune." Mr. Kriticos countered nastily. "I would say that you would have gotten away if you hadn't gone into a seizure."

"It was a seizure. I was having a premonition." Dennis blurted before he could stop himself. Mr. Kriticos cocked one eyebrow in Dennis' direction. Dennis chewed on his bottom lip -- him and his big mouth.

"A premonition? What did you see?" Mr. Kriticos asked as if he were waiting to catch Dennis in some abysmal lie. He moved away from the door and sat in his chair, which he promptly swiveled around to face Dennis.

Dennis formed his words carefully, "I saw… I saw a man named Tokugawa Ieyasu. He forced his son to commit suicide, and he had his wife executed. I don't understand why though because he obviously loved them." Dennis looked to Mr. Kriticos who held a surprised looked on his face.

"Yes…" Mr. Kriticos whispered. "That is correct. He killed his wife and forced his son to commit suicide because they were accused of conspiring with Takeda Katsuyori."

"But why? Why would he do something like that to a family he loved?" Dennis persisted.

"Politics, isn't it obvious? Politics have been running things since the beginning of time." Mr. Kriticos answered with a crafty grin. Dennis nodded in understanding. Of course, politics could make a good man become a high-quality liar.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you, Mr. Kriticos. I won't do it again." Dennis said, moving toward the door. If Mr. Kriticos allowed him to keep his job, he would consider himself beyond lucky. Why did he have to be so curious?

"Cyrus." Mr. Kriticos said loudly.

"What?" Dennis asked, confused. He turned back towards Mr. Kriticos who stared at him intently.

"You may call me Cyrus, and what do I call you?" Cyrus asked, eyeing the younger man who stood nervously at the door. Dennis looked around scared as if he were being pulled into some perfidious game. "Speak up. Don't be shy."

Dennis stuck his chin out boldly as if he were the king of the world. "My name is Dennis Rafkin, and I am a psychic."


End file.
